The Sound of Silence
by OperaAngel
Summary: Nothing about this situation was normal to Sherlock. Still, the large, white flakes fluttered around him, settling on the grass beside his feet; on the rough fabric of his coat; on the cold, smooth marble in front of him.


**A/N: **Ok, this is the first thing I've been able to write down before it completely left my head. Years of reading fics and I finally decided it was about time I submitted one. Unsurprisingly, it ended up as something very different to what it started out as. All that's left to say is this: do your worst!

**Disclaimer: **The characters of Sherlock belong to the BBC, Conan Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss et al. I'm just playing around with promise to return them in the condition that I found them. The title belongs to Simon and Garfunkel.

**The Sound of Silence**

Logically, and he was always a man of logic, Sherlock Holmes knew that pathetic fallacy was a concept that only existed in fiction. The weather never _actually _mirrored one's feelings, it was merely a coincidence. That did not, however, alter the fact that the soft snowfall, silent in its deluge, felt as alien as Sherlock did in their current location.

England was, after all, not known for its abundance of snow, the city of London even less so. Rain would not be out of place, rain was normal. Nothing about this situation was normal to Sherlock. Still, the large, white flakes fluttered around him, settling on the grass beside his feet; on the rough fabric of his coat; on the cold, smooth marble in front of him. (_New, _his brain told him, _good quality. Reasonable price bracket). _It didn't appear to matter at this moment in time that Sherlock had, in fact, been there for its unveiling, although he had not been the one to choose it. It was a simple stone: name, date of birth, date of death. No sentimental quote or trite message from a loving family. If not for the simple bouquet of flowers resting beneath it _(Pink carnation; a symbol of remembrance; not the most expensive of their genre, not the cheapest),_ it could easily be assumed that the owner of the grave was no one of importance to anyone, just another faceless name on a marble slab. Sherlock Holmes knew differently.

If anything could be said about the world's only consulting detective, it was that he was a man who thrived on puzzles, and John Watson was an enigma. Or rather, as Sherlock's brain was leading him to believe, he was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery _inside_ an enigma. A fitting tribute, coming from a man whose very existence centred on deduction, working out every miniscule clue to solve the cases that baffled even the country's finest detectives.

It was public knowledge that Dr John Watson was an army doctor. To many people, this was considered an oxymoron. It meant that he was a man as comfortable with taking a life as he was saving one. He had been shot in the shoulder, yet he came home from Afghanistan with a limp. His hand was as steady on the trigger of his Browning as it was on a scalpel, yet at their first meeting the normality of life had made his hands tremble. Most aspects of John Watson's life could be boiled down to a simple routine: the way he made his tea, his daily shaving routine, the order in which he got dressed every morning; but it took nothing more than a well-timed "are you coming?" to make him chase around London for a seemingly unknown reason. Yes, John Watson was indeed the most complex of puzzles.

To Sherlock, deduction was a science. To look at a person and see every physical detail of their life was something that he had experienced from a young age. To most people, this was disconcerting at best, to John Watson, however, it was amazing. But for all his spectacular observational talents, the detective admittedly found himself utterly confused by human emotions. John was a very emotional person. This is not to be understood that John was easily brought to tears, instead that he was a man led by his emotions. He wore his heart on his sleeve; one could read his mood as easily as the newspaper.

Rarely could Sherlock understand why John felt the way he did. He often considered himself to be above emotions, unaffected by them; but when it came to John, emotions fascinated him. Everything else about the man was so predictable, why should something as insignificant as his emotions be any different? But no, John's emotions were never predictable. Never could Sherlock have predicted the times John found it fitting to laugh at their antics: chasing a cab through central London, Sherlock's own lack of suitable attire in Buckingham Palace of all places. John's anger was just as unpredictable, often borne out of frustration at what he perceived to be his own shortcomings: anger at a chip & pin machine because of his lack of money, anger towards Sherlock's lack of care for the lives Moriarty had put at stake because John knew that he himself could do nothing to save them.

Even knowing John as well as Sherlock believed he did, the detective would never have considered this possible outcome. John was the one that cared about people, the one that helped them. For him to be here, surrounded by the dead when he was a man so full of life, was unacceptable. He should be sitting in his chair, updating that infernal blog, cup of tea in hand. Sherlock himself should be in his dressing gown, lying on the sofa throwing biting remarks at the doctor due to his recount of their most recent case; he shouldn't be standing in a cold graveyard, huddled in his coat and ankle-deep in snow. Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in sentimentality; bouncing ideas of a skull was one thing, talking to a piece of marble when its namesake wasn't there to reply was another thing entirely. John, Sherlock had expected, would be the type of person to talk to a gravestone, regardless of its lack of reply, but now, John was silent. Not laughter, no anger, no words. As the old adage goes, silent as the grave.

The death was sudden, unexpected; no one, not even the great Sherlock Holmes could have expected it. Many thoughts ran through his as ever high-functioning brain; _too young. Accident. Could not be prevented. _All platitudes, meant to comfort but failing spectacularly. As the event involved a discouraging _lack_ of foul play, Sherlock found himself at an overwhelming disadvantage. With no murder to solve, what use could he be? What action should be taken? The answer to both of those questions seemed to be the same: none whatsoever. His own tea making skills were terrible, he had often been told that he possessed little to no people skills, and there was nothing about their current situation that couldn't be deduced by the normal, everyday idiots of the world. He had nothing to say, but that didn't mean he didn't want to try. The silence was suffocating.

After what seemed like hours, but his phone told him was only several minutes, he said the only thing he could think of to say that wouldn't come out sounding heartless.

"I'm sorry, John."

A further pause; was he stupid for even expecting a response? A second lasts one hundred milliseconds, a minute is sixty seconds, an hour is sixty minutes, Sherlock knew this. Why, then, did a second suddenly seem to last several minutes?

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock, you know as well as I do the dangers of car accidents."

At first, Sherlock thought he'd imagined the response, but looking back towards the grave he saw that his friend had _finally_ turned around.

"Come on then, let's go home."

As the pair made their way towards the cemetery gates, Sherlock looked once more at the grave, his keen eyes letting him make out the words even from a distance:

_Harriet Watson_

_1976-2012_


End file.
